


Dead Like Musketeers

by amidsummersfrost



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Dead Like Me AU, Grim Reapers, M/M, Musketeers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-06-02 22:06:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6584428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amidsummersfrost/pseuds/amidsummersfrost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D'Artagnan was living the life of the average twenty-something in Paris. Living the same boring life day after day; eat, work, sleep. He longs for variety; would die for it. And in the end he does. Recruited by a group of Grim Reapers in Paris - D'Artagnan's days will never be dull again. He meets new friends and maybe even the love he missed from his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Day

**Author's Note:**

> So this was inspired by binge-watching Dead Like Me and The Musketeers whilst completing university works a few years back and came back to haunt me. Which meant I had to write …. It's a definite work in progress so please bear with me as I try to get chapters up as often as I can. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy xx

D’Artagnan woke early the day that it happened. His head was pounding from the indulgences of the night before; drinks at the local pub with a couple of colleagues turned into a night out clubbing. He closed his eyes and thought back to the night’s excesses. Memories of thumping music, liquor burning his throat and the odd couple of punches thrown came back to him. His lips began to curve into a smile at the memory, before he winced at the pain from his hangover. Forcing his eyes open, D’Artagnan reached for his phone to check the time.  

A glaringly bright ‘8:30’ burned into his eyes. It took a moment for the image to sink into his mind.

“Shit”

He was going to be late to work yet again. And his boss was going to yell at him yet again. And D’Artagnan would wish he’d never come to Paris yet again. Not that he ever meant it.

Paris was nothing like D’Artagnan had expected. He’d spent his entire life on his father’s farm in Gascony, and now he was in a bustling city. Where he’d once wake to the sounds of a cockerel crowing and birds singing, he now woke to the bustling noise of city life - to sirens blaring and people talking. Yet, for all it’s noise, D’Artagnan loved the city.

He’d moved to Paris almost one year ago; a few months after his father’s death. Gascony, whilst it would always be his home, was too full of memories to consider staying. And, at the tender age of eighteen, the only place he could consider moving to was the capital. Full of energy and constant noise, Paris seemed the place to distract him. Here, D’Artagnan could live in the moment; he wouldn’t need to think about the pain in his past.  

So far, it seemed to be working. He missed his father everyday - but there was always something to distract him from that. Be it the homeless man he passed on his way to work who would always give D’Artagnan some form of philosophical advice when he dropped a couple of euro into the woolen hat on the pavement. Or his neighbours children who always blushed and ran away when he passed them. Or the random arguing couples he would happen to pass in the street. Even the unpleasant attitude of the receptionist at his work provided D’Artagnan’s life with the slightest taste of the variety he craved. 

That was the problem though. As varied as Paris was, D’Artagnan’s life was not. Everyday he woke up at the same time, went to the same job, ate the same food, watched the same tv, and went to bed at the same time. 

And now he would have to go back to that same job, seeing that same damned receptionist, and listening to his boss yelling the same thing yet again. Or, he supposed, he could just call in sick. That would be simpler ... and potentially less damaging to his hearing. 

Except that he’d been with colleagues. And they would have no trouble throwing him to the dogs and exposing his lies. Fuck. To work it was. To that damned Good morning Sir. Welcome to Happy Time IT Services. How can I help?

With, what he felt to be, great courage he rolled out of bed and scrambled into a pair of dark grey trousers, and his offensively bright and cheerful orange Happy Time shirt. He grabbed an iced coffee from his fridge, and left his flat bleary-eyed and deeply resentful of vodka.  
By the time he stumbled through Happy Time’s revolving doors it as 9:15 and that god-damn receptionist was smirking. He glared at her and walked determinedly past, head held high - pretending that it did not feel like his would explode. 

‘D’ARTAGNAN’ 

He winced. 

His boss had a voice like nails on a chalkboard. A shiver ran down his spine as she continued to berate him for his lack of proper conduct, his lateness, his general D’Artagnanness. He glanced around the room looking for an escape. 

There was a window. Hmm. Jumping out seemed preferable to this white-noise, until he thought about the splat he would make on the pavement. 

Or there was the fire-alarm. He supposed if he could somehow accidentally break the glass that might cause enough of a ruckus to allow him an escape. Alas the probability of executing this plan without interference was a big fat zero percent. 

In the end D’Artagnan simply took the hit, and hid in the back office for the remainder of the morning; it was dark, and all he had to do was stick files in boxes. The task was so mind-numbing it might actually stop his head pounding. 

Time trickled by ever so slowly that morning. It seemed like an age between every glance at the clock, yet only a few minutes had passed. D’Artagnan sighed; would his life ever change? Would he every get the opportunity to do something meaningful?

 Somehow before D’Artagnan turned eighty the clock reached one, and it was finally time for his lunch break. With an energy that would have been impressive even if one was not nursing a monstrous hangover D’Artagnan sped out of the door and onto the streets of Paris. 

The hustle and bustling gave him life. With a spring in his step he made his way to a small independent coffee house to get a take-out mug of the sweet nectar of life. Breathing in the sweet aroma he chose to take the long way back to work; going through a local park. 

D’Artagnan drifted in an out of a lazy daydream; in the park he saw children running, families laughing and couldn’t help but envisage a future like that for himself. He could see a son and a daughter, and an anonymous woman nurturing them all. He saw children, and grandchildren, and weddings and parties, and all the loving moments inbetween. 

So caught up was he in these thoughts he bumped into a young woman; spilling the contents of his cup onto her blouse. 

D’Artagnan apologized profusely; yet the young woman barely seemed to notice. 

She smiled warmly and asked his name. 

‘D’Artagnan’ he said softly, ‘of Gascony.’

‘Well then D’Artagnan of Gascony’, she smiled sadly, ‘I’m terribly sorry’. 

With that she walked away, but not before brushing her hand lightly across his arm. 

D’Artagnan frowned and began to ask what she meant but as he looked up he found he could not see her anywhere. Most strange. Perhaps she was a little unhinged? He shrugged his slim shoulders and continued back to the office. It was just another odd moment in this wonderfully barmy, bustling city. 

He began to cross the road opposite his office when he heard an loud screech. 

Looking up all he saw was the bumper of an enormous truck, all he heard was the tyres squealing and all he felt was the wave of pain as he flew into the air and landed forcefully a few feet away. 

D’Artagnan’s body landed at awkward angles; blood pooled around his body and his eyes were glassy and unseeing.  


	2. Meeting Athos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So D'Artagnan has kicked the bucket, so to speak. But that doesn't mean it's the end…. From hereon he meets new friends(?) and gets to grips with being…. well … dead.

The seconds that followed were silent; the world seemed to stop as D’Artagnan’s body ceased to move, to breathe, to live. It was as though the moment had been paused; destined to be frozen for eternity, but within half a beat the sound became tumultuous. There was a cacophony of screams and sirens and sobs. 

D’Artagnan stood beside it all; feeling pity for the poor soul who lay unmoving on the ground. It was awful, he thought, how a life could be so easily snuffed out. A step at the wrong moment, and bam! no life for you. He tried to maneuver away from the crowd; letting the emergency services through to help that poor man. 

What he did not expect was for the emergency services to run through him. 

They ran through him.

D’Artagnan froze. That was not possible. He was solid. Flesh and bone. You literally cannot run through that. Unless....

D’Artagnan turned slowly towards the chaotic scene on the road. 

He stumbled closer. Each step felt strangely like he was walking towards his doom. 

He looked into a mirror; there he saw himself; battered, broken and bleeding. There was no mistaking what had happened; with his body at such angles, and the blood pooling around him he stood no chance. He let out a choked sob; how could this be real? D’Artagnan was dead. That was his body on the road. He noticed the most inane things; the coffee cup had rolled a few feet away, it’s contents spilling much like his blood spreading from underneath him, a shoe that somehow had left his foot was impossibly far away, his watch was still ticking away the time. How many seconds had passed, how many minutes?

It seemed impossible to him, but one can’t deny what their eyes see. Or did he have eyes right now? How was he seeing? Was he real? Or was this some kind of subconscious coping method? He looked around as if the answer to his questions would suddenly leap out at him. What he did not expect was to see a mysterious figure looking directly at him. Not through him the way that everybody else seemed to do. 

The man was a few feet away; and there was no mistaking his gaze. He was watching the D’Artagnan that still moved - whereas everybody simply saw through him. The man was tall, but not quite so tall as D’Artagnan, and though D’Artagnan was too far to see his face clearly, there was an unmistakeable look of pity upon the man’s face. 

D'artagnan bristled. He didn’t want pity. He didn’t understand what was happening yet; but one thing he did know was that he wanted no pity. He put on a mask of bravado and indifference and strode confidently toward this mysterious man. 

As he approached he noticed more about this man; he saw the crinkles around the eyes that on most would signify a person who had known much joy, but on this man simply looked despairingly sad. He noticed the rough beard, ungroomed and uncared for, but somehow gave an air of wisdom and knowledge. He noticed the unkempt dark hair falling into guarded blue eyes - eyes that never once wavered from his. He noticed the slight curl of a lip that seemed to say that D’Artagnan was a fool. And more than anything, D’Artagnan noticed that this man was old, so old, certainly his features gave an age of about thirty-five, but his carriage, his eyes spoke of a soul who had lived an eternity. 

D’Artagnan stopped abruptly a few feet in front of this man. 

“What’s going on?” D’Artagnan saw no point in beating around the bush. Instinct told him that this man knew precisely what was happening to him. 

“You’re dead.” The man’s voice was a contradiction. Soft but undoubtedly masculine; it contained an edge of steel that D’Artagnan imagined could be most cutting. His heart fluttered nervously. Well ... he thought it must be his heart. 

“Yes, I had rather noticed that fact thank you. I may be dead. I am not an imbecile.”

The man smirked at this. 

“Certainly not - you appeared to have caught on rather more swiftly than most”

“Than most? You go around talking to dead people a lot then?” 

The man sighed, as though he was about to explain something so obvious it tired him to waste energy telling him. 

“My name is Athos, I am Grim Reaper.” He held up a hand to stop D’Artagnan interrupting - his mouth was halfway to an exclamation of disbelief. “Yes. A Grim Reaper. My job is to aid the souls of the deceased move on.”

“Move on?’ D’Artagnan responded. “Move on to where?”

The man, Athos, shrugged casually. 

“How should I know - I’ve never been there. No Grim Reaper has. That is kind of the point.”

The steel edge to his voice somehow made D’Artagnan feel a little like a child; asking a question he should already know the answer to. He had another question though; one he would ask regardless of if this Athos thought it obvious. 

“So when do I get to move on?” D’Artagnan had always envisaged that souls would go to someplace meaningful to them; a favourite spot, a place of peace. He hoped to go back to his farm in Gascony. It may not have the life of Paris, but it held unwavering beauty to him. If he had to die, and he certainly did, he would like his heaven to be amongst the tall trees, and in the green grass, and the birdsong, which coupled with the whistling wind was a like a symphony. 

At this Athos gave him a soft smile; one of sorrow and pity. If D’Artagnan had a heart still he felt sure it would have stopped. He knew that smile. It was the same one the doctors had given him before they told him of his father’s death. It was a smile only given when the speaker had to impart some grave news - as if apologizing for being the bearer, and forever altering the life of an innocent.

“I’m afraid you don’t D’Artagnan.” Athos rested a comforting hand on D’Artagnan’s shoulder. He was briefly taken back to when this was all explained to him; it had been 100 years ago on the battlefield of France. He’d gone over the top, with thousands of others, and with those thousands he had been shot down. At least his Captain had been the one to tell him... He shook the memory away and focused on this poor boy in front of him. He did not know him, and in time he could either hate him, or love him, but for now he knew that as the bearer of this news, he had to be supportive. He braced himself... and forced the steel edge he so carefully homed away from his voice.

“As a Grim Reaper we all have a quota of souls to collect; no Reaper knows how many that is until the last one has been collected. Once they have collected that last soul they themselves move on to the unknown. You were the last soul reaped by my colleague. She was the woman you spoke to before it happened - the one who brushed your arm. That is how we remove the soul from the body before death. As she has filled her quota she has moved on and her vacancy must be filled. As such you have to take her place. You must become a Grim Reaper”


	3. An Introduction to the 'Afterlife'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So D'Artagnan's going to be a Grim Reaper. But before that can happen a few things need to be taken care of first….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh i am so sorry I've taken so long to update. I have had so many deadlines for my teaching long with trying to sort out a new job. It's been crazy hectic but I will try my hardest to update more regularly now!! <3

“I’ve got to become a Grim Reaper?!” D’Artagnan’s voice was incredulous. “You can’t be serious.”

“On the contrary, I am being very serious.” Athos’ voice was verging on monotone but it held an edge of steel that brokered no argument from D’Artagnan. 

That steel seemed to cut D’Artagnan. It was though it had snapped a cord inside of him, and he crumpled to the floor as every dream he had ever known drifted from his grasp. 

Athos knelt beside him, and place a warm hand on D’Artagnan’s shaking shoulder. 

“I know it’s a lot to take in. Believe me, it seems like yesterday that I was learning about this all. It will take you a long time to become used to it. I’ll be here to help look after you”

He squeezed D’Artagnan’s shoulder in what he hoped was a reassuring way.   
His heart jumped at the sad smile of thanks D’Artagnan offered him. 

“So, what happens first?” D’Artagnan’s voice was stronger than Athos would have expected in the circumstances and he admired the young man for it. 

Athos explained to D’Artagnan that he would not have any duties until after his funeral: this was simply standard practice. He would work as a Grim Reaper with Athos has his supervisor until such a time as he could work alone. Athos also explained the general set-up of his new career path: Athos, along with several other Reapers worked under a Captain Treville - who assigned them the souls to be reaped. He explained to D’Artagnan that there were divisions upon divisions of Grim Reapers all of whom reaped souls based on how they had died. Athos and his colleagues worked in the ‘Accidental Death’ division: this included motor accidents (like D’Artagnans), trips and falls, sporting accidents, one incident - Athos recalled - actually involved someone slipping on a banana peel. 

He thought it best to introduce D’Artagnan to the people who would were to be his colleagues before he was actually thrust into work as a Grim Reaper. 

Athos stood and held a hand out to D’Artagnan. 

“Come. I’ll introduce you to the team, they’ll normally be in the coffee house at this point. Just don’t be alarmed if they don’t look directly at you when they’re talking - until your body is buried you’ll be invisible to humans and talking to thin air tends to raise suspicion.”

“Umm okay. I just have two questions right now.”

Athos quirked an eyebrow - a gesture to continue. 

“One - you said until I’m buried I’ll be invisible - does that mean people can see me after the funeral? Two - you’re talking to me and I’m invisible.”

The corners of Athos’ stern mouth quivered slightly. 

“One - yes and no. You’ll have a physical body again but anyone who isn’t a Grim Reaper will see somebody who looks very different. Only Reapers will see your true face. Two - I don’t care if people think I’m a lunatic.” D’Artagnan smiled at that. “There’s a lot for you to learn, too much to explain in one go, but don’t worry you’ll get there. And I’ll always be here to lend a hand.” 

D’Artagnan followed Athos to wherever their destination was. It was strange - he thought to himself - how well he was taking this. It was perhaps because Athos seemed such a staunch and unwavering character. He was someone D’Artagnan trusted without cause simply by virtue of his character, and the depth to his crystal blue eyes. He wondered how old Athos was - he’d never seen someone who looked as if they carried as much weight as Athos. He looked as though he hadn’t truly smiled in decades. D’Artagnan silently vowed to get a smile from Athos. 

Athos led the way through a number of Parisian streets and allies, through parks and over bridges. D’Artagnan was very much under the impression that they were walking across the city - he had not noticed how far they had walked whilst discussing this new world he belonged to. His mind had been rather too preoccupied to notice the miles they had walked. 

Their destination, ironically enough, was the small coffee house where D’Artagnan had bought his final beverage. They walked in, Athos staying quiet so as not to arise suspicion, and D’Artagnan inhaled the bitter-sweet smell and wished so very much that he could drink something right now. He was almost willing his funeral to happen now so that he could do living-people things again. 

Athos turned and weaved through a few seats until he came to a large booth where three other men were already sitting and chatting familiarly. Athos slid in to the emptiest bench and D’Artagnan followed suit. He felt nervous - these were, after all, the men he would spend the next however many decades or centuries with. Christ he hoped they liked him. 

The three men looked at him with an air of suspicion. 

“This is D’Artagnan, gentleman. He was Marie’s final reap this morning, and so will be taking her place on our team.” D’Artagnan gave a half-hearted little wave ‘hello’ at this point. 

Athos continued the introductions. The tall dark-skinned man, with a bandana stretched across his forehead, and sporting a particularly filthy grin was Porthos. To his right was Aramis - a romantic looking figure with sweeping brown hair and a constantly flirtatious spark to his eyes. Finally the stoic unsmiling man was Captain Treville; he was the man who led this division - assigning the daily reaps and ensuring no Reaper broke the rules. 

Immediately D’Artagnan thought he liked them all. If he had to spend a near-eternity with just a few people then these men seemed like ones who could make it all bearable. 

His funeral was held a week later. In that time he’d largely been around Athos and Treville. Treville had to fill in an inordinate amount of paperwork with D’Artagnan dictating the answers as his current ghostly state made holding a pen an impossibility. Athos, he followed around to learn the ropes, learning that simply a brush of the hand would separate a soul from its body. He learnt that they would witness many souls move on to somewhere but that they never got see where. Yet throughout all of this he still got no closer to a even the glimmer of a smile from Athos. Did that man feel happiness at all?

D’Artagnan shook thoughts of Athos from his mind and focused on the scene before him. It felt so surreal. 

Despite having no family there was still a sizable congregation in the church to bid him farewell. A lot of his colleagues were in pews, most looking morose, but some simply looking bored. His neighbours were there - and their teenage daughter looked utterly devastated. He even saw the homeless man he passed every day on the way to work. D’Artagnan felt his heart squeeze tightly as he looked over the ceremony. It was nice to know he had some impact in his life. 

When it came to the burial, D’Artagnan felt a sadness he never knew could truly exist. He had thought he was growing accustomed to the idea of being dead, but seeing his coffin slowly lowered into the cold, hard ground made things final. This wasn’t a dream. There was no going back to normal life. He would miss the commute. He would miss the mundanity of it all. He left the church grounds, tears streaming down his face. 

He walked the streets of Paris. Going anywhere, and everywhere. It wasn’t as though he was going to bother anyone. 

D’Artagnan moved to walk through a man as he continued to drift. Except that he walked into solid flesh. 

“Watch where you’re going - moron!” 

D’Artagnan stopped. 

He caught a glimpse of himself in the nearby shop window. And his face was not his own. 

Moving closer he saw a long face, with an olive complexion, a crooked nose, but bright clear blue eyes. He blinked. Nope. Still the same face. He also noticed in the reflection, a man whose features he did not recognise, but who seemed unnervingly familiar. 

“Your funeral is over now D’Artagnan. It’s time to become a Reaper.”

It was Athos.


End file.
